


The Parting Glass

by secret_cs_fics



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Churches & Cathedrals, F/M, Ireland, Operas, Seaside, Wakes & Funerals, librarian!killian, opera - Freeform, opera singer!emma, tw: mentions of religion but not in an indocterinating way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 18:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8295712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secret_cs_fics/pseuds/secret_cs_fics
Summary: “We don’t have a lot like you around here,” He said.
“Americans?” She asked.
“Pretty girls with beautiful voices.”
--//--
In a seaside town in Ireland, it takes Emma and Killian four funerals and a wedding to fall in love. A librarian!Killian and Opera Singer!Emma Modern AU.





	

At first all he could notice was that there was a black moth circling the chapel.

 

_Yeh, though I pass through the shadow of death, I may fear no evil._

 

He wondered if this moth was it, the shadow of death, flickering around the inappropriately sunny chapel.

 

But then again, he didn’t know if he believed in God. Everyone in this small Irish town had Catholic funerals. It was just the thing one does.

 

So he was sitting here, his eyes tracing the moth on the ceiling because it was easier than looking at the coffin. The coffin that the held the woman he once loved.

 

_Milah._

 

Her name was lodged in his throat, driving crevices into his soul.

 

He wasn’t sure what real claim he could lay to her. They’d dated two years ago, for only six months. They’d had far too many differences- she was much older, was recovering from a bitter divorce. He was fresh from university. She was a little too old, a little too settled. They were never, ever meant to be.

 

It was dangerous because she was intoxicating. Even after two years, there was a bit of him that wanted to cling to her. First loves, even when ill suited, are always alluring. There was a little bit of him that was happy she had died, because he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to stop loving her. Now that she was gone, he was free to try to find love again.

 

He felt his brother lay a hand on his shoulder grounding him.

 

“It doesn’t make sense now,” He said, “But it will in time.”

 

His gave his brother a wary look. He didn’t think that death ever made sense. Even in time.

 

Then a figure walked into the chapel, taking her place at the podium in the front of the church. He knew that there was a special name for the podium, he remembered learning it primary school, but he forgot what it was. The figure was dressed in black, but her hair was light blond, illuminated in the light. She had bright green eyes, full cheeks. She looked like a cherub, but misplaced, macabre in this sad place.

 

For a moment he wasn’t sure who this woman was. Maybe a friend of Milah’s? Maybe a cousin or estranged sister? He’d never seen her before. Then she opened her mouth, a distant organ in the back of the church beginning to play, and he realized who she was- the funeral singer.

 

Her voice was light, but beautiful. It was the kind of voice that was trained, exquisite and ill placed in this somber place. He could imagine her singing in the opera, in a musical, a classical concert. What a gift it was to hear her voice: like a bright stream of light breaking through the darkness, his darkness.

 

In just the sound of her voice, a bit of him softened, calmed. A bit of him healed. He was still suffering, greatly, but her voice, her light muted it.

 

_Do not be afraid_ , her song said.

 

He would not be afraid. For the first time since Milah died, he felt a flicker of hope.

 

\--//--

 

It was two years later that he found himself in the same pew of the same chapel.

 

This time everything inside him was raging. That damn black moth was still flying around the chapel. It was two years and no one had bothered to get rid of the fucking moth. What even happened in this damned church? Had nothing changed since he was here last?

 

He was angry funerals had to take place in the morning. Who thought it was a good idea to mourn in the bright sun? Who thought it was a good idea to have these rays of sunlight peaking through, stain glass casting dancing colors across the chapel. It seemed wrong. It was like the sunlight was mocking him. He was nothing but angry, raw edges. He didn’t want to think about light or hope.

 

He squashed his eyes shut, because he had tears in them and he didn’t want to share them. He braced himself for his brother’s hand on his shoulder, just like last time. But there was no comfort from him here.

 

When he opened his eyes, she was there. He hadn’t seen her in two years, completely forgotten she’d existed. She was dressed in a long back dress, a soft looking denim shirt unbuttoned over it. Her hair, pulled half up, was still light as it’d been two years ago. Her eyes just as dream like.

 

He recalled at the meeting with the priest to determine the funeral service, he’d been asked, “Do you want to have a family member do the music? Do you have any songs you’d like used?” He’d been too choked up to answer, not knowing how any song, any musician could do justice to life of his beloved brother. He shook his head. “Maybe we’ll just use our parish musician then? She’ll pick out something suitable,” The priest offered. _Sure anything whatever_.

 

But now he looked at her, the young woman who helped him find hope two years ago. A grotesque angel.

 

He remembered having religion lessons in primary school. He remembered learning a story, was it Joseph? Or Moses? He thought it was Moses. A story where an angel of death passed over the roofs of people’s houses and those who hadn’t marked their houses with blood had lost their first born to the angel of death.

 

He wondered what he had done wrong that his older brother, the first-born had been snatched. He thought of the accident- wind screaming as the boat slipped from side to side, the glumps of cold sea water scratching his throat and lungs, a dizziness and disorientation as he fumbled with ropes, the sickly feeling of blood trickling down his forehead, and then when everything was still for a moment and he realized what was lost. He remembered screaming his brother’s name at the top of his lungs, seeing if that would will him back.

 

Indeed, if there had been some secret incantation, lamb’s blood to smear over his roof- he would have done anything to stop this horrible thing from happening. From losing his brother.

 

Then her voice was cutting through darkness again.

 

_I will give you rest,_ she sang.

 

He still wasn’t sure if he believed in a God, at least not really the churchy kind that cared about holy water and incense. But he liked the idea of having rest from the ache in his chest, the sting in his eyes, and the sleepless nights. Listening to her voice, he could will himself to believe in something. Because if he did believe in something, then Liam was not all lost. Not totally gone from him.

 

He wanted to tell her how much her music meant to him. How it had cured him from the darkness that haunted him from the losses his acquired over the years. He owed a lot to his unnamed angel. This healing, light of a funeral singer.

 

But the funeral was ending and he was following the coffin out of the church. Her voice carried out of the church, lulling his heart, hushing his hurt.

 

_The peace the world cannot give,_ she sang.

 

_She is my peace_. She wasn’t an angel of death as much as she was an angel of hope, an angel of music, and an angel of light.

 

\--//--

 

It was two weeks after that he saw her again. She was sitting in a café by the sea.

 

It was the first time he’d walked by the sea in a while.

 

Her hair was in a high bun, a bright green sweater jauntily on her body, tight dark blue jeans on her crossed legs. She was drinking a cappuccino, a notebook spread out on her table.

 

He was shocked for a moment. He his head she just lived in the day chapel of the church. Like the priest, like the small order of nuns in town- the funeral singer must just be a part of the church.

 

Now the notion seemed silly. Of course she was a real person, who probably did things other than sing at people’s funerals. Of course, she wasn’t a real angel, despite the way that her emerald sweater was making her eyes dance.

 

She lifted her head to meet his eyes. He felt himself unfreeze, just as her forehead wrinkled.

 

“Can I help you?” She asked.

 

_American._ She had a clear American accent. In a small town like this, American accents were rarely found.

 

All of sudden, he wanted to know everything about this mysterious woman whose voice had illuminated his world. His intrigue in her gave him hope, which he really, desperately needed.

 

“Sorry, I just thought-” He started.

 

But what could he say? He didn’t know her. He couldn’t just start talking to her. Human or not, she was an angel of music and he couldn’t just strike up a conversation with her.

 

“Never mind,” He finished.

 

He started to back away.

 

“Wait,” she began, “I know you. You were at the funeral two weeks ago. The really young guy. Liam.” She bit her lip, “Your brother?”

 

He let out a stilted nod.

 

“How are you doing?” She asked, her voice sincere, as she seemingly tried to make sense of his awkwardness. “You can sit.”

 

He let out a huge sigh. He knew that if he sat beside her, if he talked to her, if he opened to her- it would shatter the illusion that she was an angel. But he had hardly talked to anyone since his brother’s death. He didn’t have a lot of friends. He hadn’t much family left either. He needed to talk to someone.

 

“How is your head?” She asked, as he sat across from her, as she nodded at the jagged cut across his forehead. There were still bandages holding it together. Just like he was being held together by thin strings of hope.

 

“It’s been better,” He admitted.

 

“Are you doing okay?” She asked. “Dealing with things alright?’

 

A lump settled in his throat. He shook his head.

 

“It’s okay to say no,” She said, “Everyone acts like when you are hurt, you can just pull yourself back together like it’s nothing. Like you can tie your grief up in a tiny package. But it’s not like that. Loss shapes us. We have to deal with them, of course, but it doesn’t happen overnight. It’s okay to not be healed yet.”

 

“It seems like you know what you are talking about,” He said.

 

“I play a lot of funerals,” She offered.

 

There was a beat.

 

“I’ve been through some things,” She told him, honesty evident in her voice.

 

He wondered what things this young woman went through. He wondered if anyone was taken from her, if anyone hurt her. He wanted to take away the pain from this lovely woman who’d given him a flash of hope.

 

Just thinking about someone else’s pain, about someone other than himself, gave him a flash of hope.

 

“I’m Emma,” She said, reaching out a hand.

 

“Killian,” He replied.

 

\--//--

 

They saw each other two weeks later, in a pub on high street. When she had texted him to ask, he couldn’t say no. There was a band playing some traditional music at the front of the bar, but tucked in the corner it wasn’t so loud.

 

They’d both had enough drinks to be honest, but not enough to be sloppy.

 

“I studied music at university,” She told him, when he prompted her to tell him her story, “In America. Chicago. At a good school if you want to break into opera.”

 

He nodded, that explained her classically trained voice.

 

“I moved out to Europe after I graduated to try my hand in the opera festival circuit,” She continued, “It was a huge risk. I didn’t really have a family to fall back on, so I just took out a massive loan to see what would happen. I started off in Florence in June. I was performing in Saltzburg in August. Then I’d been booked here for the fall.”

 

He imagined her life traveling the world singing at opera festivals. What had happened? Why had she given it all up?

 

“I really liked it. I’d never traveled the world, but all of a sudden the world was at my fingertips. It was such a rush. Which was what caused me to be foolish,” she explained, “I got pregnant in October. The father was another performer and he moved on to the next festival. I was left behind.”

 

He was drunk enough to be put a hand on her shoulder. He was drunk enough to pull her a little closer, comfort her.

 

“It’s fine really, I can talk about it all and not get upset. I realized I needed something more stable if I was going to raise a child. Mother Superior found me sobbing in a café, actually the same one I saw you in a few weeks ago. She listened to me cry about my life and how I was stranded in a foreign country, without anything to do, or anywhere to stay.”

 

He brushed a hand through her hair. He paused for a moment to see if she would pull back. She didn’t.

 

“She asked to hear me sing and told me that their church’s singer had just left and that they were looking for a replacement. I think it was it supposed to be a temporary thing, till I found something more permanent, till I had the baby or something,” she explained, “But I just kept staying on. Mother Superior helped sponsor my visa and she let me stay in the convent till I could afford rent somewhere. She was really too kind. It was almost six years ago now. I’ve been here ever since.”

 

“I’m glad you’re here,” He said.

 

They were silent for a moment. She sipped a cider and he wondered how it tastes on her tongue. Light and crisp, he supposed. He sipped in own stout in stillness.

 

“My brother’s funeral wasn’t the first time I heard you,” He said.

 

He was feeling honest too.

 

“No?” She asked.

 

“My ex-girlfriend’s funeral a few years back,” He explained, “We weren’t really in love anymore. But I still loved her.”

 

She nodded and rested her head on his shoulder.

 

“Everything was black till I heard you sing,” He told her, “It made me less miserable. With my brother too. You really help people.”

 

“I’m not just a funeral singer,” She laughed, “I do sing a lot of funerals. There are a lot of old people in this town. But I do weddings too. And Sunday morning masses. And the Children’s Choir. My son is in it. It’s my favorite part.”

 

He tried to imagine a smaller version of her- a tiny boy with light blond hair, little emerald eyes.

 

“I’ll have to come see you sing something else,” He said.

 

“Okay,” She said.

 

\--//--

 

Later that night, after they’d both had another drink, they’d wandered out of the pub to walk along the sea. They were holding hands. It was late autumn, and perhaps a little too cold for this sort of thing, but they were just warm enough from drink to not notice. A long pier wove into the sea. They walked out till around them was a black abyss, the town illuminated in the distance as they looked back.

 

They sat on the end, so that their feet dangled off the end, the town to their back. Only the onyx expanse spread before them, an infinity of darkness- but he only felt light.

 

“We don’t have a lot like you around here,” He said.

 

“Americans?” She asked.

 

“Pretty girls with beautiful voices.”

 

\--//--

 

He didn’t see her for a month after that. He wondered if he scared her off. Maybe it was too early to have called her pretty or too early to have held her hand.

 

He sent her texts, but they remained unreturned. He wondered if maybe she just wasn’t interested.

 

He tried to forget about her. He focused on finding a new job. After Liam died, he couldn’t see himself working on the sea anymore. He’d studied English at UCD for a year, before giving up and returning home to help his brother on the sea. The library was looking for someone part time to shelve books and help out with events. He slid easily into the job. The head librarian was young and had vivid plans for ways to expand the events that the library offered. She said that the job could evolve to full time if her plans went through.

 

The job occupied him enough, helped him find some books to distract him. To distract him from the girl with long blond hair, green eyes, and a golden voice.

 

And when his job didn’t distract him, rum did. The amber liquid lulled the pain when the memory of her voice didn’t. It left him dizzy, but warm, which to him was better than being lost and alone.

 

He knew he could find her at church, but he avoided it, telling himself that he just wasn’t a church going kind-of-man.

 

By the time Christmas rolled around, he couldn’t take it anymore. He missed the bright woman who’d pulled him from sadness. He needed her like a tonic to the weariness of his soul.

 

He wandered past the church one evening, just as the sun was setting. A sign outside advertised a Christmas Pageant. Curious, he couldn’t resist walking in the door.

 

Then there she was. She was dressed in a long sleeve green dress, a red scarf around her neck. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes joyful. She stood in front of the children, moving her hands to conduct them. He could see why this was her favorite thing to do. She looked so alive, smiling at the small ensemble of kids.

 

He lingered in the back of the church, not daring to sit in the pews, just observing her. The children eventually put on a little pantomime of a Christmas tale. They took up a collection for a local children’s home. He shoved a tener in the collection box, feeling generous.

 

He found her afterwards, talking animatedly with another parent. He watched her bid them Merry Christmas, before turning to the small boy beside her. He was still dressed as a lion from the play. He didn’t look at all like her- all chocolate eyes and dark hair. But the lad still had the same full cheeks, dimpled chin, and sincere expression as his mother.

 

“Mama,” The boy said, his funny voice not quite American or Irish, “There is a man there who wants to talk to you!”

 

He watched as Emma turned, her hair fluttering a bit with the movement.

 

When she saw him there, her face fluttered between surprise and fear.

 

“Hey Henry, why don’t you go play with Avery for a moment?” She said, ushering her son off on a friend. He watched the small boy scamper off

 

“Emma,” He said, “How are you?”

 

She blushed, “Oh, I’m great. You?”

 

“Grand,” He said, “I got a job at the library.”

 

“Wow, that’s really good for you,” She said.

 

“You didn’t reply to my texts,” He said, letting the truth hang out. He couldn’t ignore it any longer.

 

She rolled her eyes, making to fuss over a folder of music for a moment, “Women aren’t required to reply back to every man who sends them a text message.”

 

He flinched at her prickly remark, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that I thought there was maybe something between us. That night on the dock. I must have just imagined it.”

 

Her face was full of pain, “Come this way.”

 

She led him down a hallway off the side of the church. It was quieter here, not milling with parents and children like the rest of the building. In a few footsteps, everything has suddenly become more intimate.

 

“I’m just a little guarded about stuff,” She admitted, her voice softer now.

 

“I know,” He said, “We all are-“

 

“No,” she said, “When I was in college, university, whatever. When I was a sophomore- like my second year- I had this boyfriend Graham. He got really sick and died…. Then later when I was here, I met Henry’s father, and he left.”

 

He reached out for her hand. She pulled it back, not indulging in the comfort of his touch.

 

“Every time I love someone, it destroys them. It destroys me,” She confessed.

 

The words _Angel of Death_ rang again in his head.

 

“You seem wonderful Killian,” She told him, “That’s why I can’t touch you.”

 

“That’s all fairy-stuff,” He said, “Curses, bad luck. You can love one day and not hurt them. Or yourself.”

 

“I’m not sure I’m ready to believe it,” She said, “I’d rather keep you safe.”

 

“What if we just say friends, then?” He offered.

 

“Yes, friends, I suppose that works,” She allowed.

 

He gave her a hug good-bye, not long after. He thought about how she smelled of vanilla and cinnamon. He wanted to hold onto her for longer. He wanted that scent to cling to his clothes. He wanted to smell her on his sheets.

 

Maybe in time.

 

“Merry Christmas, Killian,” She bid him, as he walked into the cold night.

 

\--//--

 

He didn’t hear from her for another few weeks and he worried that maybe she had just said it all for show. Maybe she _was_ trying to freeze him out.

 

He found her walking down the main road into town one day. Rain was pouring, the sort of icy rain that chills you to your bones. She was bundled up, wellies and umbrellas.

 

“Where are you going?” He asked.

 

“To work,” She said, “I just dropped my son off at playschool.”

 

“I can give you a lift,” He offered.

 

“Okay,” She agreed.

 

She unfolded her umbrella and ducked into his passenger seat. The rain sounded in little pings around the car. Her hair was wet, the usually light colored strands darkened with moisture.

 

“Do you walk to work often?” He asked.

 

“Always,” she said, “I don’t have a car. The insurance is too expensive for foreigners.”

 

“That’s a shame. This town isn’t really made for walkers,” He commented.

 

“Tell me about it,” She agreed.  


“I could come and collect you,” He offered, “Take you to work everyday?”

 

“Really?” She asked, “You’d do that?”

 

“Of course,” He replied, “That’s what friends do. They look out for each other.”

 

She smiled a little shyly.

 

“Besides, the church isn’t too far from the library,” He agreed.

 

“Okay,” She said.

 

\--//--

 

It was a month into this arrangement that she asked if they could stop for a hot chocolate.

 

Which was how he discovered her penchant for cocoa.

 

He stopped on his way to collect her each morning at the café up the road. It was busy in the mornings, full of commuters popping in for a coffee. He’d get an Americano for himself, a hot chocolate for her.

 

Nothing made him happier than to see her wide grin when she took the take away cup in her hand. She’d lift the lid, as always, lick the whipped cream off the top, inhale the scent, before closing the lid and taking a sip.

 

He liked her methodical hot chocolate drinking.

 

He liked a lot about her.

 

\--//--

 

It was another month later, as February was starting to give way to March, that he convinced her to take a Friday off. They drove two towns over to a café that was supposed to have the best cocoa in the county. He watched her with eager eyes, her giggles tickling his ears, flustered at his rapt attention to reaction. She took a timid sip.

 

“What do you think?” He asked.

 

He watched her smile slowly.

 

“It’s good,” She said, “But it needs cinnamon.”

 

“Cinnamon?” He repeated.

 

“I always put cinnamon on my hot chocolate,” She explained.

 

“You should have told me,” He laughed, “I would have found some to keep in the car.”

 

“You do enough already,” She said, softly. “Really, it’s more than I ever repay.”

 

“It’s just a lift to work,” He said, shrugging.

 

A smile tugged at her lips, “Just a lift a work.”

 

He once again wondered about the taste of lips, sweet with rich chocolate and a dash of cinnamon.

 

\--//--

 

There was an upcoming event at the library where a famous children’s author was coming to speak.

 

“We need something really special for his event,” His boss, Belle, ranted, “We need to make this event pop, stand out. It can’t be ordinary.”

 

She was beginning to brainstorm ideas of bouncy castles or costumed characters, when his thoughts drifted to Emma.

 

“I know a lass who runs a children’s choir,” He suggested.

 

Belle looked up from her clipboard.

 

“That’s perfect!”

 

He asked Emma about it the next morning.

 

“Well they aren’t supposed to really perform anything outside our church,” She said, “But if I got all their parents permission… maybe.”

 

\--//--

 

The event took place in the beginning of April. There were ten children from the choir in attendance. Emma was wearing a flowery blue dress, her hair in a loose braid around her shoulder.

 

He loved to watch her as she directed. She seemed cheerful and graceful, in a way that she never exactly seemed in real life. He wondered if this was what she looked like if all the walls came down.

 

Afterward, he took her and her son out to dessert at the fancy restaurant down the road. The boy looked through his newly autographed picture book, reading the book over and over at the table.

 

Killian felt a warmth that he hadn’t felt in so long.

 

_Family_. This was what family felt like.

 

\--//--

 

He discovered it was her birthday at the end of the month. He insisted on taking her and her son to Dublin for the day.

 

They drove up in his car, the highway tracing the coast as they watched the sea from the window.

 

“Look at that big boat, Mama,” Henry said, pointing a finger at ferry crossing the sea.

 

Killian wondered if he’d ever see boats the same way again. The guilt of Liam’s death seemed to cling the objects that had once given him comfort. Maybe that was why he clung to Emma now. She was both comfort and newness. She was both shadow and light.

 

They spent the morning at the zoo in Phoenix Park. Henry had never been to a zoo before and grew delighted as he looked at each new animal.

 

“Mama, can you believe that is a real lion?” He squealed.

 

Emma smiled and squeezed his hand. “I know, baby, that’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?”

 

He loved to see her like this. In her mom mode, she was all tenderness. Her hard edges were smooth. He felt lucky that he was seeing more and more of this side of her.

 

In the afternoon, they walked along the South Wall, a long pier that extended into Dublin Bay. It ended with a bright red lighthouse. He stood from behind, looking as she pointed out different sights to her son from the end of it. He liked the way her blond hair contrasted with the sea, and sky, and lighthouse. He felt like there was so many possibilities around them- it seemed like hope was limitless.

 

Later in the day, he took her to Butler’s Chocolate on Grafton Street.

 

“This is probably the best hot chocolate in all of Ireland,” He told her, as she sprinkled cinnamon on top.

 

She took a sip and nodded.

 

“I think I’m having an other worldly experience,” She admitted, “This is insanely good.”

 

They wandered through St. Stephen’s Green after. They sat on a bench while Henry chased after the ducklings in the pond.

 

“Thank you for this,” She said, “Today, this year, all of it.”

 

“Of course, Emma,” He nodded.

 

She took his hand and squeezed it.

 

She didn’t let go.

 

\--//--

 

On a night in early May, he realized it had been six months since his brother passed. The pain that had felt muted recently, reared its ugly head.

 

He felt shredded up, and raw, and disgusted.

 

_It’s all your fault,_ the voice in the back of his head told him, _You could have saved him._

He walked to his brother’s grave, but found that cold stone gave no solace. He left flowers anyway.

 

That night he couldn’t resist re-opening the bottle of rum in found the back of his cabinet. He hadn’t touched it since January, since Emma had fit herself firmly into his life. But now, he felt like he couldn’t ask too much of her to help him through this.

 

Things had just gotten to a hopeful point between them. He didn’t want to lose the progress by asking her to tend to his emotions. She did that already with her very presence.

 

Rum was easier than asking too much of her.

 

In the morning his brain felt foggy with sleep, his head aching. He groaned, realizing he had forgotten to take Emma to work.

 

But she was there. Somehow. Likely because of a door he forgot to lock.

 

She gave him a glass of water and coffee. She rubbed her hand through his hair, singing something soft and comforting under her breath. Her voice was the balm to his pain. Just like before, it dragged him out dark place, the mental coffin that he’d made for himself after his brother’s death.

 

Then she dragged him out of bed and shoving him into the shower. When he was done, she cooked him breakfast and poured the rest of his rum down the drain.

 

She stayed until early afternoon, making sure he stable, both physically and mentally.

 

He left a hot chocolate on her doorstep later that night as a thank you.

 

\--//--

 

He found a book about mythology in the library.

 

He read about sirens in the book. They were enchanted women known for their beauty and elegant voices. They were known for luring sailors.

 

He wasn’t sure if he counted as a sailor anymore, but he considered himself lured.

 

_Not an angel,_ He thought. _Because surely this woman is a siren._

 

\--//--

 

In June, he found out that she’d never been to see the cliffs.

 

He piled her and Henry into his car and drove across the country. He booked them a night at a BnB, two rooms. One for her and Henry. One for him.

 

They spent the day at the cliffs. Emma’s hand was always tight around Henry’s, making sure to keep him on the correct side of the fence.

 

“Do you see that puffin down there, baby?” She asked.

 

“Yeah, Mama, I see the little puffin,” He said, “Look there is it’s mommy and daddy.”

 

She smiled, “Yeah there is.”

 

“Just like you and Killian,” He exclaimed.

 

Her face looked shocked, then she glanced up him and he offered a weak smile and a shrug.

 

“Maybe just a little.”

 

\--//--

 

That night, after they’d taken dinner in a little pub and listened to a band play a few traditional songs, they went back home to their BnB.

 

Henry fell asleep right away. On the drive to BnB, He’d read over and over a book about puffins they’d bought at the cliff’s gift shop, so naturally he was tired as soon as they walked into their room.

 

Killian retired to his own room, his mind warm with thoughts of the day that’d just happened.

 

There was a soft knock on the door.

 

“Come in,” He said.

 

She was there, in sleep shorts, a soft grey camisole, and thick socks that stretched to her knees. Her make up was off, her hair in a knot on the top her head. She looked vulnerable and open in a way he’d never seen her before.

 

“Hey,” She said, walking in, her footsteps eliciting soft groans on the hardwood floor. “I just wanted to say thank you for this trip. You’ve been so kind to me and Henry.”

 

She sat on the edge of his bed. She was light, hardly creating a dip in the mattress.

 

He sat up so that he was facing her, his blue eyes meeting her green.

 

“It was my pleasure,” He said, “Genuinely. You’ve helped me so much this year.”

 

He leaned forward to kiss her cheek, her skin soft under his lips.

 

He waited for her draw back, but she didn’t.

 

So he kissed her other cheek.

 

Then her forehead.

 

Then her nose.

 

Then the dip in her chin.

 

Then her lips.

 

Her lips moved under his and for a moment, he thought that she was going to pull back, retreat as she always seemed to do.

 

But instead they moved with his, meeting his dips with her edges.

 

She leaned forward and he let his hand reach out to cup her hip. His thumb rubbed a circle under the hem of shirt.

 

“Hmm,” She said, pulling back and looking at him. “Thanks again.”

 

\--//--

 

A week later one of his neighbors died. He didn’t know the man well. He was a kindly looking old man, whose grandchildren littered the garden square across from his house.

 

He attended the funeral and was fond to see that Emma was singing the ceremony.

 

_Come to me and I will give you rest,_ she sang.

 

He thought of how her voice had given him rest when he’d needed it.

 

He thought of all the bits of her he still longed to find rest in. Or just for the simple pleasure of sleeping beside her.

 

The black moth wasn’t here anymore. No shadow of death circling.

 

When the funeral ended, he didn’t follow the casket, instead staying by Emma’s side.

 

She kissed him in the shimmering colors of the stain glass window light.

 

\--//--

 

He started going to church again on Sundays. He still didn’t know what he believed, but it was worth it to hear her sing once a week.

 

Afterward, they’d go to her place and they cook a big breakfast, the three of them.

 

She kissed a smudge of jam from the corner of lips when Henry wasn’t looking.

 

_Family_ , he thought again, wondering if he dared to claim these two as his own.

 

\--//--

 

He convinced her to audition for one of the operas in the festival this year. He and Henry were both delighted when she received a small role. He promised to mind her son when she needed to go to rehearsals.

 

“It’s not that much,” She shrugged, as she thumbed through the libretto, humming along with the melody.

 

“This is what you’ve trained for,” He told her, “You could go back to it, you know.”

 

She shook her head.

 

“Henry can’t live in that world,” She admitted, “And I ‘d have to leave-“

 

She looked at him and he knew that she wanted to say, “you.”

 

But her walls, while falling, still left her guarded.

 

“And I’d have to leave this town,” she finished.

 

\--//--

 

On Henry’s birthday, he and Henry went to go see her perform. Her role was indeed small, but her voice was perfect for it. She was enigmatic on stage and understood why she had wanted this to be her life’s vocation. She was splendid.

 

Afterward, they went back to her house for cake and ice cream. They sang Henry happy birthday till his ears turned red.

 

_Family,_ he let himself think again. He wondered if one day, one day maybe, she’d let him join her family for real.

 

\--//--

 

On the one-year anniversary of Liam’s death, they decided to take a trip. She thought it might help him to be away from the town on the date that had haunted him for so long. He agreed that it sounded grand.

 

Mother Superior watched Henry for the weekend. It seemed that the nuns loved to dote over the small boy and enjoyed minding him for the weekend.

 

Emma and Killian hopped on a ferry to France. It was an overnight trip, and they slept in a cabin, in bunk beds, with two others. He woke in the middle of the night to her snores. He smiled and rolled over. Who knew such a beautiful girl could make such noises in her sleep.

 

\--//--

 

He woke again the night, startled by the movement of the ship. It called back another boat ride in another life. He tried to tether himself to the present moment, but he could only hear his brother’s screams, see the wreck before his eyes.

 

Somewhere else, somewhere like now, her fingers were weaving between his hair, pull him back to now. He took shuttering breath, trying to focus on her green eyes, letting them anchor him back to the present.

 

She tugged on his hand and they made their way up to the top deck.

 

“Fresh air will help,” She promised him.

 

But he was sick, heaving over the edge of the ship. He slid onto the deck shaking, unwanted tears stinging his eyes.

 

“I still feel guilty for it, you know?” He said.

 

She rubbed his back softly, putting a kiss in his hair.

 

“I know, but you shouldn’t. You have to realize this at some point. You did everything you could do,” She told him firmly, “You did everything. I promise you did. One day you’ll believe it.”

 

He leaned his head on her shoulder. They sat under the stars a little longer, staring out at the dark blue abyss once again all around them.

 

Eventually, she nudged him back to bed. She curled up his bunk with him, wrapping her arms around his back. He knew it was unconventional to lie like this, but he felt safe.

 

\--//--

 

The next day they rented a car and drove to a tiny walled French town on the sea. They held hands as they walked through the winding alleyways and secret passages. They climbed the walls that circled the city and looked out at the sea, the city, and the coastline. They feasted on a seafood lunch from a little bistro.

 

He stumbled through the French on the menu as he attempted to place his order. Emma, in contrast, ordered in perfect French.

 

“Since when did you speak French?” He asked.

 

She shrugged, “I needed it for opera. I don’t know what most of it means, but I can pronounce it.”

 

\--//--

 

They stood inside the large church in town, walking under streams of stained-glass light all of it contrasting with the dark eves and grey stones of the cathedral.

 

“This makes our town church seem simple,” she remarked.

 

He nodded.

 

“The rose window is really gorgeous,” she added, as they looked up at it.

 

“I’m not sure if I believe in God,” He blurted.

 

It was only in saying them that he realized how long he’d been holding them in.

 

“I wasn’t sure if I did either,” Emma confessed, as she sank into one of the wooden chairs in the church. There were no pews there.

 

“No,” She amended, “I know I didn’t. I was 22, unmarried, pregnant, out of work, and stranded in a foreign country. I definitely didn’t believe in anything.”

 

“But now?” He prompted.

 

“I believe in something,” She said, “I’m not sure I believe in all the rosaries and rites and icons. It’s beautiful though, even if I don’t always understand it. There is something cleansing about rituals. Regardless, I believe there is a greater plan. There has to be. How else would I have ended up in a small town in Ireland? How else would I have found you?”

 

\--//--

 

At sunset, they walked out on the pier. It wound deep into the sea, farther than the one at home, till the walled city was distant. The sinking sun turned the once azure waters into pastel pink and muted orange.

 

“I’ve sang so many funerals, I think I have all the songs picked out for my own,” She said, laughing darkly.

 

“What would you sing?” He asked, as they settled at the base of a lighthouse on the end of the pier, watching the sunset fade out.

 

_The Lord is my Shepherd, therefore shall I lack nothing,_ she began to sing.

 

He lost himself in her music, the grand sweeps of her voice, light, but never meek as it hit the highest notes.

 

He thought of the first time he heard her sing in the chapel years ago. How could he have ever known what a gift he was being given in such a dark moment? Life could be cruel, but also kind. It had given him her.

 

“It’s from the Rutter Reqiuem,” She said, as she finished, “The penultimate movement.”

 

“It’s lovely,” He said, moving forward to kiss her. It was the type of kiss that was slow, and drawn out, so that he felt each bit of pressure, each tiny moment of her lips.

 

“I’m really sorry about your brother,” She said, when he pulled back.

 

“I love you,” He blurted.

 

It seemed that today words were eking out of his lips without restraint. He panicked. He knew her, she was carefully guarded with her emotions. She had been the one to set the pace. Maybe this declaration, too hasty and sweeping, would scare her off.

 

But instead, she smiled shyly at him and said:

 

“I love you too.”

 

\--//--

 

That night they shared a hotel room together in a hotel in town. They came together for the first time. It was as series of soft movements, soft words. He’d never been happier.

 

\--//--

 

“I used to think you were an angel,” He admitted, as their bodies cooled. He traced his thumb in a pattern along her breast.

 

“I’m not angel,” She laughed.

 

“I know,” He said, kissing her hair.

 

“I used to think you were a siren,” He hushed.

 

“I’m definitely not a siren,” She laughed again.

 

“I know.”

 

“I’m just a human,” She said.

 

“I know and I love that.”

 

“I love you.”

 

\--//--

 

They cancelled their ferry tickets home, deciding it prudent to not tempt fate with ships again. He knew he’d make his peace with them over time. It was easier to drive to Paris. They booked tickets for an evening flight home.

 

They had a few hours free in Paris. They wandered down boulevards that they didn’t know the names of and tried confections out of patisserie shops. They stopped at a hot chocolate shop called Angelina’s.

 

“Move in with me?” He asked, as she drank deeply from her mug on the outdoor terrace of the café.

 

She chocked on it moment and he thought that he’d said the wrong thing.

 

Then she swallowed and said, “I’m not sure Mother Superior would approve of us moving in together unmarried. And seeing as she pays me, I wouldn’t want to upset her.”

 

“Well then what if we got married,” He said, “Then would you?”

 

“Yeah, sure, okay,” She said.

 

\--//--

 

He bought the ring in late November. He’d gone up to Dublin for the day, saying it was for some sort of librarian conference, but in reality, it was purely for ring shopping. He went from shop to shop till he found one that fit her perfectly, a diamond with small emeralds on the band. They would match her eyes perfectly.

 

He got back in the evening with a mug of luke warm Butler’s hot chocolate. It wouldn’t be quite the same, even with a little microwaving, but he hoped she’d liked it.

 

The ring, he’d save as a Christmas present.

 

When knocked on the door, it was Henry that answered.

 

“Hey lad,” He said, “Is your mam home?”

 

“She’s home, but she’s crying,” The small boy explained.

 

“What do you mean?” He asked.

 

The boy opened the door wider and let him in. He found Emma sitting at the kitchen table, tears in her eyes.

 

“What’s wrong, love?” He said, sliding beside her.

 

She started several times, her voice caught in her throat, as sob shivered through her body. His arms wrapped around her quickly trying to hold her together.

 

“It’s Henry’s father,” She said, finally managed, “He died in some weird, fluke accident with a set piece at a performance in Brussels.”

 

“Isn’t that a thing that only happens in movies?” He said, thinking of a musical he’d watched once.

 

“Apparently not,” She sobbed.

 

He stayed with her as they sat down with Henry and explained to him that his father, a man he’d never known, had passed.

 

“But I still have you,” He said, patting Killian’s knee.

 

He stayed the night with Emma. This time let his arms wrap around her back and held her close. There was something haunting about her pain. He didn’t know what to say to her. He didn’t quite understand why she was so upset over the death of a man she’d hardly known.

 

\--//--

 

They booked tickets to Brussells to pay their respects. They drove to Dublin in the morning and landed at Charleroi in the early afternoon. It took another bus ride to situate themselves in the city and an hour to find their hotel.

 

The funeral was at a church a few blocks away from La Monnaie, called Notre Dame du Finistre. She recognized a few familiar opera faces in the congregation, who she pointed out to him.

 

“See her? She’s a gorgeous soprano.”

 

“That one there, he’s a tenor and quite pitchy to be honest.”

 

The church buzzed with murmurs before the service, in which she tucked in confessions. He imagined the congregation was not just opera singers, but also the man’s family.

 

“I feel weird here,” She admitted, under her breathe, “These people, his family, they’re related to Henry. They’re his aunties and uncles. They’re his grandparents. And he doesn’t know them. I’m not sure I should introduce them. He didn’t want me and Henry in his life- who is to say they will?”

 

He watched as a man, bent over a cane, with stringy hair and a cruel face, delivered the eulogy. The father of the dead man seemed sinister to the core. Killian’s stomach clenched, feeling defensive of the small boy.

 

“Maybe let’s just keep Henry our secret,” Killian suggested.

Emma gave a little nod and squeezed his hand, clearly thinking the same thing.

She gave him a running commentary on the funeral music selection.

 

“A little cliché,” she admitted, when an opera friend began singing the Andrew Lloyd Webber Pie Jesu.

 

“Cliché, as well, but adorable,” She told him, as a younger cousin sang a rendition of Amazing Grace.

 

As the ceremony ended, the family drifted out of the church, leaving her and Killian and Henry. He noticed that despite the clever commentary, a look of anxiety still ghosted her face.

 

“What’s wrong, darling?” He asked, as they wandered slowly out of the church, putting distance between them and the funeral party.

 

She didn’t answer right away. It wasn’t till they were in a park a few blocks ahead. It wasn’t until Henry had gone off to play with a few other kids in the park, outside of earshot, but close enough to be under their watchful gaze. It wasn’t until they’d settled on a bench on a grove, that she answered.

 

“We shouldn’t do this anymore,” She said.

 

His stomach dropped. She couldn’t mean it.

 

“What?” He asked, shock taking away his articulation.

 

“We should stop seeing each other,” She said, her voice firm.

 

His world started to crash around him. Here was this amazing woman who had completely transformed his world, first with her voice, then with her heart. How could he bear to be parted from her?

 

“What? Why?” He gawked.

 

The word _family_ , so firmly placed in his head dissolved into million of pieces.

 

“I was right before,” She said, “Last Christmas.”

 

He tried to trace her thought. All he could remember was the blush on her cheek as she smiled along with the kids, the way the green dress she wore brought out her eyes.

 

“I was right when I said that I hurt everything I touch. Well, I guess, I amend that, I kill everything I touch. My college boyfriend. This guy. They are all dead.”

 

He wanted to laugh for a moment because this explanation was far-fetched, so inane that he could hardly believe it.

 

But he saw the tears in her eyes and the way her voice caught on a sob. He knew it was true.

 

“I couldn’t live, truly, if anything happened to you,” She told him. “I couldn’t survive it.”

 

“Nothing is going to happen to me,” He reassured her.

 

“No, you were right about me,” She said, “I must be something unhuman. Maybe some sort of witch or cursed demon woman, sucking the life out of promising young men. I can’t be a siren, or an angel. Or if I am an angel, I’m angel of death.”

 

He thought back to first times he heard her sing. He remembered thinking the same words in his head, as he listened to her voice, beauty in a place of darkness. But he hadn’t realized was that it wasn’t her as a full person. Her voice had been intoxicating, illuminating- but it wasn’t her soul. He’d thought her an angel, a siren, because it was easy to paint beautiful women into whatever fantasy you want them to be and ask them to slip into it. But she hadn’t. Her rough edged had buckled in places he wanted her to fit a mythical mold. The more learned about her- her high walls, her skittish way of loving, her fears and hesitations- the more he realized that she was just as flawed as he was. She was human. She couldn’t be cursed- not a witch, not a demon- because she was just a human.

 

He would tell her all that in time, when she’d had time to catch her breath and rub at her eyes.

 

For now he said, “I love you. You are human. You are mine. And I love you.”

 

\--//--

 

He proposed the next day. He wasn’t planning on it, but they’d caught a train to Bruges on a whim and with the intention to make a day out of it. The city was so beautiful, little canals, town squares, and cobblestones. They fed Henry frites and bought as much chocolate as they could fit in their suitcases. They stopped in a tiny lace shop where they watched an old women hand-make lace. They splurged on a canal ride, even though it was a little too cold for that sort of thing.

 

It was a fairy tale town and he thought that while this woman wasn’t a creature out of his books, she deserved a proposal to rival one.

 

He turned as they crossed a tiny bridge, the city surrounding them. He slipped his phone to Henry and asked him to take pictures. A bit of snow was beginning to fall. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen snow.

 

He dipped down on one knee and all of a sudden the long-winded monologue of a proposal he’d planned for days slipped out of his head.

 

So he did what he did best, he blurted.

 

“Well, erm, I know you’ve got all the songs for your funeral planned out, but have you got some songs planned for a wedding?”

 

“Yes,” she said, as he lifted her hand into his, sliding on the delicate green, gold, and diamond ring.

 

“Yes,” she said, as he rose to his feet to meet her lips.

 

“Yes,” she said, as he lifted her in arms to swirl her around, the snow settling in her hair and eyelashes.

 

She took his hand and they wove through the town, Henry in tow. They talked about trying to find the Christmas market and if there would be any hot chocolate at it and if it was anything like the chocolate here, it would be heavenly.

 

He thought about how a funeral first sparked his interest in her. And another had made him fall in love with her. Then later, a funeral reminded him of everything he liked about her. So, now, now, it made sense that a funeral would propel their proposal. It was a strange way to fall in love- funerals. But their relationship was always more than that.

 

He glanced over at her, taking in rosy cheeks, evergreen eyes, and golden hair. His angel. His siren. His wonderful human. And soon to be- his wife.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever CS fic I've posted... so if you made this far thanks so much for reading! Reviews/kudos would make my day :)


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